


and when i fall asleep, sleep with a ghost, (1/1)

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-26 08:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne





	and when i fall asleep, sleep with a ghost, (1/1)

_**and when i fall asleep, sleep with a ghost, (1/1)**_  
 **title** : and when i fall asleep, sleep with a ghost  
 **rating** : r-ish  
 **pairing** : eames/arthur  
 **spoilers** : none glaring, though there are references  
 **disclaimer** : all hail nolan, dreamer extraordinaire.  
 **writer's note** : i've been out of the fic-writing groove for a while, so this is only 485 words. i think this might be the kick to ride, though.  
 **summary** : A case study: of gambling, of the Fischer job, of totems.

When it comes down to it, neither one of them is a gambler. Arthur always knows how the dice will fall; Eames counts the cards carefully, and with a smile. Outcomes are predicted, winnings collected, everyone going home happy, though with Arthur it's often hard to tell. (Eames knows, of course. He always has.) They're calculators. Evaluators. Skewing the odds, often just because they can.

It comes as no surprise, then, that neither can predict the other. They're like fireflies flying apart, winking in and out of each others' sight, always in the periphery—reappearing when least expected. Nothing is planned. Everything changing. There is solace in the shifting, and they can always find each other when it matters.

After the Fischer job, it matters.

"It could have been you," Arthur mutters, his hands on Eames' belt, his voice rough-edged, the only words of declaration Eames will ever get. "I thought it had been you, for a minute there."

"Worried about me, were you?" Eames chuckles, fingers occupied with buttons on a waistcoat, unknotting a tie. "I'm touched."

"Fuck off," Arthur retorts, gracefully, as always, his jawline sharp under Eames' mouth.

"Only if you ask nicely."

They're always like this, push and push back, Arthur shrugging out of clothes before Eames can tear them, Eames' eyes bright with something more than just a con man's confidence. This is what they come together for, the power struggle, variations on a theme, never the same, because that's what feels safe, that's what feels real. Today it's look at me, pet, look, look, look, because I'm still here and so are you, tomorrow it will be on your knees, Mr. Eames, and say thank you. They're hot hands and hotter bodies and pistoning hips, Arthur's teeth in Eames' shoulder and the slick slip-slide of skin on skin, and the window is open just in case one of them needs to run. (Arthur is very good at his job—there is always an escape.)

Neither one of them is running tonight, it seems.

Every so often it happens this way, the sweat cooling on their bodies and neither moving to collect pants and trousers, to buckle belts with a click, to take the easy way out. Instead it's Eames' chin on Arthur's chest, sharing a cigarette, a dark curl breaking free from gelled confines and the rasp of stubble on sensitive skin. They bicker quietly, as they do, Arthur thinking of Dom and Mal and the kids, Eames thinking about someone he met once, in a dream, and he has to keep himself from gripping Arthur's hips so hard they bruise. Every so often, this feels like home—like it wasn't a gamble after all.

For it wasn't, Arthur thinks. He doesn't roll the dice without knowing where they'll land; Eames doesn't throw the chips without knowing where they'll fall. All the while, aiming. Aiming for the other's feet.


End file.
